


To the Sea

by ameliajean



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajean/pseuds/ameliajean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They resolve to say the things they'd meant to say before the fall, but it is easy to be courageous in quiet moments alone.</p><p>
  <i>Dark was the raging sea<br/>Waves all screaming, crashing on us<br/>It really doesn't matter; everything is fine<br/>Quiet ye voices, quiet</i>
</p><p>"Quiet Ye Voices" // Sanders Bohlke</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Reichenbach.

For John, the regret is instantaneous: pavement, and blood, and _I wish I would have said_.  
  
John refuses the many pleas to return home or allow a physician to prescribe something to calm his nervous system. He haunts the spot for hours and watches the rain wash away the last traces of blood (so much blood, so much) as night descends upon the city. The words are sharp with well-defined edges and sound an awful lot like the dialogue of a cheesy romantic comedy, sans comedy. They never leave his throat, though, as he kneels amongst the blackened globs of gum on the sidewalk, and tries to suppress his knowledge of bones and vessels and vital organs.  
  
Private, hushed declarations are made in the days following: at the kettle, on the sofa, in bed as he watches shadows dance across the ceiling in the dark of midnight. He informs the Earl Grey that watching telly with Sherlock on a Sunday afternoon brought him more joy than any sexual encounter he’d ever had. He glances over at the empty space on the sofa and mumbles something about missing the domesticity of shopping for two and fighting over the newspaper. In a cocoon of blankets as sleep draws near, it is far worse, because that is when the truth he’s kept deep within his chest manages to crack his ribcage and emerge in fully formed sentences:  
  
“To have held you once,” he says, voice breaking at ‘once’, and hiccuping sobs overtake him.  
  
John begins to plan; he plans an entirely fictitious world from top to bottom, from country homes, to precious metals banded around fingers, to trainers that could fit in the palm of one’s hand. It is terrible and self-indulgent but that doesn’t stop the thoughts from forming and taking up residence in the deep-down part of him, where nobody is allowed to go.  
  
It becomes accepted knowledge rather than a hideaway thought, as it was in the days preceding the  _final_ day, and John holds it within him like the simultaneous gift and burden that it is. There is no shame or doubt. Through the clarifying lens of death, of loss, John is able to adjust his vision of the past: he is Sherlock’s, fully, and Sherlock is his. The past tense does not deter him from accepting these facts; they were always within him, somewhere, knocking around.  
  
They were all the things he didn’t say.  
  
\- - - -  
  
For Sherlock it is like a wave crashing along the shoreline: powerful, deafening, monstrous one moment and mere foam the next.  
  
Sherlock registers the guilt immediately, a shock to his system far worse than the sprained knee or the cracked rib, and pays no attention to Molly’s pleas for him to please eat something, _anything_. He wraps a blood-red scarf around his neck like a scarlet letter and crouches on her fire escape at all hours of the night, chain-smoking and gesticulating wildly as he articulates his position on romantic love to the empty night air.  
  
For the first time in his life, Sherlock’s thoughts are erratic and strong sense of loss overtakes his entire being. At each attempt at sleep, he wakes after only minutes, the sensation of falling stopping his heart for a beat, and the sheet stretched over Molly’s too-small sofa is soaked in sweat. His body betrays his ever-cracking exterior. It becomes too taxing to keep up the appearance of detachment. It isn’t fooling her now and it didn’t fool her _then_. Soon it is too taxing to keep up the appearance of detachment even when he is alone.  
  
It hits his solar plexus in deep swells, dark like the raging sea: the ghost of John’s scent when Molly uses their brand of laundry detergent, the lack of John’s peacefully sleeping form on the sofa and the warmth it instills in him (and when, when did that happen?), the ache deep in his stomach when he makes only one cup of tea. It is textbook, nearly. It is so much a part of himself that nothing else makes sense anymore.  
  
For Sherlock, it is not a belated lack of inhibition for the sake of self-preservation. It is a realization in every shade of every color, so bright and powerful that it cannot be mistaken for anything else in the world. He understands the value now. The sentiment.   
  
_Though_ , he surmises, conjuring up an image of he and John eating breakfast, laughing, _even amongst millions of others who claim to experience romantic love, this must be unique_. And he is right. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, the acceptance of what he’s left behind drags the next six months right up to the edge of _intolerable_.  
  
There are so many things he has yet to say.  
  
\- - - -  
  
When the web has been fully washed out from the dark corners of the world, each man has spent over one hundred and eighty days swearing to himself: _if I had the chance, I would say_ and _when I return, I’ll say_ because with tragedy comes clarity. With loss comes priority. But it is easy to be brave in quiet moments alone. Their overwhelming flaw lies within the situation itself: will the separation be their catalyst, or will it destroy them in its wake? Will it destroy what it is that they both hold so dearly?  
  
Sherlock runs. He runs as if he hasn’t smoked eighty-four packs of cigarettes since leaving Baker Street. He runs through evening traffic even as his knee screams at him and a Korean grocer attempts to admonish him for knocking over a cart of apples. The various reactions of his brother, the Yard, and any other acquaintances to whatever occurs in the aftermath of this moment do not enter into his mind.  
  
John stands at the fireplace with a thick stack of envelopes in his hand. He thumbs through them, mentally separating them into _pay now_ and _pay later_. It is still unbearable to see Sherlock’s empty chair across from his own, so he does not sit as he performs this task. The skull on the mantle stares at him with its black sockets and illusory smile. He supposes he’ll spend the evening in the usual fashion: a strong drink on the sofa, the telly flashing its bright colors and emitting its unintelligible words at him, Mrs. Hudson pleading with him to eat a real meal.  
  
A door slams and footfalls crack loudly against the deteriorating steps. Anxiety slams John’s heart against his ribcage and causes sweat to bead on his palms.  
  
They stand in the same room for the first time in half a year that felt like half a century and the oxygen is sucked from the atmosphere.   
  
John understands in an instant. He is furious and relieved beyond measure and knows that all the gruesome details aren’t worth discussing in this very moment, because he has a lifetime to yell at this man for saving his life by nearly destroying it.  
  
A handful of envelopes hits the floor. They lock eyes and hold, steady, only a moment before traversing the space between and stopping just shy of one another. It takes every bit of restraint on both of their parts to stand still while John’s mind races, trying to edit all of those things he meant to say; to turn them into present-tense.  
  
Sherlock’s left hand encircles John’s right bicep while his other hand splays over John’s heart. John’s features soften as he watches the other man’s attempt to ground him in reality. The volumes of words they meant to say wash away with the tide and float out to sea, dissolving into it; into them.  
  
The moment passes. John grabs Sherlock by the lapels and pulls him close, nearly knocking the air out of him. They wrap arms around torsos and flatten palms against the hollow between shoulderblades, each silently vowing to himself, _I will do_ , and _we will_.  
  
Eventually, Mrs. Hudson ascends the stairs to offer John a sandwich, and they hear dishes clatter before smashing upon inevitable impact with the floor.  
  
\- - - -  
  
Reporters swarm the flat so they decide to disappear for a few days. Maybe a week.  
  
The train ride is pleasant and uneventful. The simplicity of taking a train together delights them no end, each smiling at random intervals without consciously meaning to do so. They pay extra to sit on cushioned bench-style seats below a large window. Sherlock creates a bridge from hips to feet by resting his heels next to John on the seat across from him and they drift in and out of light sleep.  
  
Morning sun streams through the window and Sherlock feels the weight of John’s arm resting against his shins. Something within him unspools, like the string of a kite, until it is taut. There is a word for it, though the semantics don’t particularly matter.  
  
Sherlock Holmes is _happy_.  
  
With the heft of this realization, he gently lifts John’s arm from his shins and bends his legs so shoe-soles meet the floor. John raises his head and opens weary eyes, settling his gaze on the empty spot next to him as if to say, _well, where have your legs gone? they were quite comfortable_. In a second, Sherlock reaches across the space to gently grab hold of the other man’s striped sleeve and guide him across the chasm.  
  
John smiles and happily complies. When he bends to sit, Sherlock glances at the expanse of the bench and gives a minute shrug of his shoulders; blink and you’d miss it. John nods, once, and stretches his body over the cushion, resting his head on Sherlock’s thigh. They’re both taken aback by how normal it feels: the contact, the familiarity, the mutual understanding of _what happens now_.  
  
Sherlock settles his arm on John’s side, slowly drops it to John’s chest, and finds fingers with which to link his own. His feet find their original resting spot on the opposite bench and breath comes easier than it has in ages. They sleep for nearly three hours without stirring.   
  
In the orange glow of the mid-afternoon sun spilling into the train car, Sherlock’s eyes slowly flutter open to find a paper cup filled with coffee waiting in an outstretched hand. He accepts it graciously, without the usual nattering about sugar or temperature (though it is both sweet and properly heated).  
  
“Thank you,” he says, voice thick. “Thank you, John.”  
  
John exhales deeply, slowly, and a smile slowly forms so that the faint lines around his eyes crinkle. He leans forward to place a kiss just at Sherlock’s hairline and lingers there.  
  
“You... are welcome,” he says, the words a bit muffled, his lips still pressed there to the clean scent of shampoo.  
  
They drink coffee in comfortable silence and hope to arrive with enough time to watch the sun set over the North Sea.  
  
\- - - -  
  
Sherlock sits with those long legs sprawled in front of him and his palms flat against the sand, leaning back against them to cast his gaze across the pink-grapefruit sky. John folds their coats into neat squares and kicks off his shoes, noticing that Sherlock is already barefoot.  
  
Bamburgh is quiet just as they’d hoped. Not another soul in sight. They listen to the roar of the ocean and watch the sand soak with cold seawater as it crawls ashore. Night grows nearer and they sit as closely as they’ve always sat. The sky dulls to a calming cornflower blue and Sherlock feels a hand on his right shoulder.  
  
John braces himself by placing his other hand on Sherlock’s left shoulder as he swings his right leg over the man’s body to bring his knee to rest in the sand like the other. He kneels there, hovering over Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock sits up a bit to bring his own hands to rest on John’s waist. From this vantage point, John rakes his hand through the soft, dark brown curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He places a kiss at the curve of the Consulting Detective’s shoulder, his earlobe, cheek, and finally, tentatively, his lips.  
  
The sea air has dried onto their lips and tastes of salt. John is purposeful and measured, unwilling to rush the moment. He properly settles onto Sherlock’s lap and warms by degrees. The tip of Sherlock’s nose digs into his cheek. John pulls away, just a bit, and places a quick kiss to the heart-shaped curve of the other man’s lips as if to say, _and one extra, and always one extra, and always_.  
  
His eyes are full now, as he pulls away, and Sherlock regards him with care.  
  
All the words they meant to say remain afloat at sea, somewhere past the line of the horizon.  
  
“He tried to burn the heart out of me, John,” Sherlock breathes shakily. He moves his hands across John’s back to hold him closer, nearer, dearer. “And here you are.”  
  
John lays his head in the hollow of the other man’s neck, chastely kissing the bare skin there; the words are out of his mouth before he finds a way to temper them.  
  
“May I hold you like this forever?”  
  
Night falls over Bamburgh and the air is warm. It gusts over them to tangle Sherlock’s curls and nips at their seawater-damped toes. They separate a bit, slowly.  
  
Sherlock lays his hand over John’s heart once more, _once more and then a thousand times more_ , and pushes him just far enough away so that they may look one another in the eye.  
  
For John, it is a culmination of many things: sleepless nights, grief beyond measure, and as much love as one human being is capable of feeling for another.  
  
For Sherlock, it is simple.  
  
He is positively alight with joy.  
  
“Obviously.”


End file.
